


All I Have to Give are Apologies

by APendingThought



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Arguing, Brotherly Angst, Danger, Delirium, Fever, Fix It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Medical Examination, Medical Inaccuracies, Pneumonia, Sick Character, Sick!Catfish, Sickfic, Survival, Whump, army bros, in this fic Pope is the closest they have to a medic, just wanna beat up Fish, never say die, protective!pope, sick!frankie, that's the plot, this will not end well, whump!Frankie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: Soon after the heist, Pope realizes that Frankie is sick.  The entire plan teeters on disaster. The newly criminal band of brothers learn quick what life could be like without their wingman. Will Fish back out without a fight?  Will he survive the next 8 hours?
Comments: 98
Kudos: 18





	1. THE CHILL

**Author's Note:**

> I scoured and searched but could not find ONE Frankie whump fic. Not one. For all the mess that goes down in Triple Frontier, you'd think there'd be more.
> 
> This fic is pure whump indulgence. What I would have written if I had been in charge. No smut, no slash but the bond between Fish and Pope is gold.
> 
> Enjoy!

Fish is sick.

He’d be the last to know.

Pope knew. They were close as brothers. Each man had his eye trained on the other but as far as Pope was concerned, Francisco demanded both eyes. In the corp, he’d earned his rep. He’d charged into field operations with sprained ankles, grabbed the wheel to push head on into heavy active fire, gone days without food and pulled his weight like the rest. Fish would let piranhas gnaw him to the bone first before complaining. 

(That may explain why he let coke do the talking for him) 

For a man like Fish, falling behind meant never getting back up again.

He’s pretty sure Red is already wise but not vocal. Will and Benny might have figured it out but they’re both too chicken shit and high on adrenaline to say anything to his face. If Fish isn’t saying anything, it must not be important.

Pope looks. Then he looks again. 

Fish leans his weight against a pile of spare loading crates on the tarmac, gaze fixed on Red as he goes over the route one more time. They’re all on edge, things have to get moving like yesterday but Pope’s contact at Interpol is keeping them grounded until Yavonna arrives with her brother.

The wait is killing him.

Fish’s cigarette hangs limp between his fingers and he takes a quick drag, exhaling over his shoulder so as not to take his eyes off Red. Red hates it when he doesn’t get both eyes. Pope shoots a nervous glance sideways as he picks up the slight wheeze out of Fish. Fucker shouldn’t be smoking at all but no one’s going to blow his cover. He’s not smoking to hide the fact, he’s smoking to steady his nerves. Pope can relate.

He steals another glance as they walk through the plan. Fish is shivery but that could just be jitters and the chill outside. His field jacket isn’t nearly thick enough and they’re all jumpy, high on the dopamine of fledgling millionaires.

This mission isn’t over. Not by a long shot. The white boys whoop and holler but he and Fish know better than to celebrate too soon.

Fish cusses under his breath as the wind picks up, grinding his cigarette butt on the ground to rub his arms. It’s a good day to fly. Normally, he’d be bouncing on his heels, raring to go but he’s quiet now—subdued or just focused, Pope can never quite tell with him. 

Pope doesn’t like what he suspects. But he can’t do shit about it. Time and place was everything now and no one could afford a sick pilot.

Therefore a sick pilot simply doesn’t exist.

That suits Fish just fine.

“Everyone good?” Red’s voice cuts through the distraction.

“Yes sir.” As one, they respond. It’s at that blessed moment his phone goes off.

He picks up. “Listo?” Ready?

“Sir. We have the brother. ETA in 10.”

Pope clicks off, fears forgotten, brain in active mode. Things were finally falling into place.

“ETA in 10 guys, let’s get this bitch loaded! Move!” 

Fish is up on his feet, jogging alongside the group. Unlike Iron and the even more jubilant Benny, he’s focused and ready to haul. 

Pope joins them. Maybe it’s just a cold or the dry air. Maybe the fucker should give up smoking? After tomorrow, he’ll have enough of a nest egg to buy his own nicotine factory. Pope bites his lip and refocuses. Fish and his lungs will have to wait. Right now, they have a fortune to secure and a plan to set in motion.

They cannot afford a fuck up.


	2. HEAD IN THE SAND

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pope wrenches a confession out of Fish.

“He don’t look good.” Benny’s murmur by his ear breaks his thoughts. He’s sidled up behind him as he does when something tears at his gut too much to voice out loud. Pope considers Benny one brave motherfucker for sneaking up on an active DEA agent. They’re rigging up the duffel bags to the net, securing their gear to the craft. It’s lock and load. They move fast.

Pope pauses tying off one of the bags, gaze shifting to where Benny has himself focused. It’s Fish, coughing as he secures the netting and double checks the scale. 

_Don’t be suspicious._

“What? That’s about as good as He _can_ look.” He shrugs, distractedly. His head is in a million places. Yavonna, her brother, the payoff required to cut him free, the passports, the landing permissions, the cover ups. He can’t handle another dilemma. The crazed glint in Tom’s eye when he cracked open that wall, his willful denial of the hard stop. They hadn’t even left the ground and already they’re crumbling. 

Benny shakes his head, pulls Pope to the side to whisper harshly.

“Naw, really lookit ‘im! Someone’s gotta say it!”

“Can it wait until we reach the ocean?”

Benny chews his lip. “Dunno. But he’s fucking sick bro, I’m sure of it!”

“How’s Iron doing?”

“Nothing he ain’t dealt with before. But Fish, he’s—“

“He’ll be fine. Probably nothing.”

Benny doesn’t quit, though. He casts another furtive glance over his shoulder.

“He’s breathing weird. Looks like he’s running a fever. He got winded just from loading three sacks into the cargo hold. He ain’t solid!”

Pope releases a slow exhale, licks his dry lips. He meets Benny’s gaze, just to cool his jets.

“Alright, I’ll check him out.” He casts a furtive glance at Tom. “Keep Red busy, don’t want him losing his shit this close to takeoff.” 

“We even gonna be able to take off? What if Fish--?”

“I said let me handle Fish! Now get moving before someone comes looking!”

He dreads this. But ugly jobs are what he’s born for. He hasn’t decided what approach he’s going with but that’ll have to depend on how well Fish takes the bait.

Fish is taking a breather when Pope finds him, panting and sweating against the side of the helo. He’s flushed but then so is Pope. They’ve both been schlepping their futures around for the past hour. The adrenaline has left him wrung out.

He truly does look like shit. Pope can’t spin it to himself any other way.

“Hey.”

“Sup.” Fish nods, fiddling with his watch. “We done?”

So much for tact.

Before he can react, Pope seizes him by the shoulder so he can’t bolt and presses a hand to his forehead, knocking the cap off his head in the struggle. 

“Hey!” Fish jerks back violently but Pope’s grip is fast and holds him grounded. He doesn’t need more than a couple seconds to confirm that he’s burning up. 

“Get off!” He growls, throwing Pope's weight off. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Pope doesn’t answer immediately. His throat is going tight, rage building in his chest. He’s waiting for Fish to come clean but Fish only stares at him.

“I’m f-“ 

“No me joda.” Pope cuts him off. _Don’t fuck with me._

“Hey, c’mon—“

“Ya terminaste.” _You’re out._ He decides out loud.

Fish’s head shoots up, eyes wide as though he can’t believe what he just heard. 

“Bien, al garete.” _You’re crazy, man._ The edges of Frankie’s eyes crinkle and he cracks a hopeful grin but Pope isn’t letting him walk. 

“We can’t risk liability. You’re done. I’ll inform Red. He can-- ”

He makes a motion to pass but Fish grabs him by the sleeve. He’s pissed off now and the emotion of it sets off a fit of harsh coughing. 

“No! Fuck you, Santiago!” He shouts, even as he wheezes for breath. “I’m your fucking pilot, who else is gonna get this bitch off the ground? You?”

“We can reconvene on that. You’re grounded. End of convo.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Fish shakes his head, dark eyes glistening, throat working. Pope pulls him into a hug, speaking next to his ear. He can feel Fish shaking.

“I know, pendejo. I don’t like it either. But we got no choice.”

“You don’t make that call, boss.” He says in Spanish. “Red does.”

Pope steps back, releasing him. 

“Fine. I’ll let him make it.” He turns to leave. “Fix your face before you run into Benny and Iron. I don’t want them wise.”

“Probably already are.” Fish mutters.

What he didn’t know…


	3. IN OR OUT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pope gives Frankie a once over, confirming his suspicions. Red makes a hard choice.

He’s definitely seen Redfly angrier. The more reason he has to rage, the more collected he appears. Their commander's expression could freeze jet fuel when he spills the news. He runs his tongue along his teeth and releases a heavy breath. 

That’s all he needs to say. Words too often get wasted on Fish. 

Fish’s shoulders hunch forward slightly. He is falling back on his military training to keep him at attention before his commanding officer. His throat moves nervously as he swallows. But Red doesn’t speak to Fish. Instead, he addresses Pope.

“Check him out. Report back to me ONLY . You have less than 10.”

Pope turns to Fish. “Let’s go.” 

Fish nods, eager to be out of Red’s sight.

There isn’t much private space for a med eval on a tarmac in the middle of nowhere, even less so a rushed one. The runway is too loud and open so Pope shoves Fish in the jeep and drives a little ways out into the jungle. No cars, no witnesses, no notice. It would get more hackles raised. He pulls in off the dirt path, well out of vision. Then he opens the drivers’ seat, grabs his bag and tablet, and opens the rear passenger side door.

“Unzip.” He says, slamming the door shut behind him.

Muttering, Fish drags his zipper down. “This is a waste of time.”

“Way to describe my sex life.” Pope chuffs, hoping to put Fish at ease with some small talk. Angry vitals don’t tell truths. He hands Fish the thermometer first, an easy one. “Shut up and let’s get this over with.” 

“Now thass MY sex life, _cabron_!” Fish sighs, popping the thermometer in his mouth.

“You guys still do it? After the baby?” Pope asks. Fish nods, emphatically. 

“Especially after the baby!” He gripes thorough closed teeth. Pope raises his eyebrows. 

“Well damn.” 

Fish passes the thermometer back. Pope scans it and jots down the number, not bothering to report the results. He moves on to clipping a pulse ox on Fish’s finger, splaying the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope out on the seat.

“Roll up your sleeve.” 

“Unbelievable.” Fish mutters to no one. “I’m fucking fine.” 

“This is your chance to prove it. Face me.”

Pope is only interested in vitals. He wants to give Red good news, wants so badly for this to be a minor skid. But Fish’s temp is high enough to ground him. It also explains his irritation; he’s not usually this short-fused. The pulse ox is not his friend either. He picks up the steth and plugs it in his ears, shifting himself a little closer. 

“C’mere.”

He pushes aside the collar of Fish’s T-shirt inside his field jacket to get at his bare skin with the diaphragm. He can already hear Fish’s breathing hitch, the proximity making him edgy.

“Breathe normal for me. Don’t tense up.” Pope says, reassuring. Fish looks down at his hands, exhaling stiffly.

Right away, Pope can hear he’s jumpy. His heart rate is through the roof, though he can chalk some of that up to stress. Its rhythm is too fast and thumping hard, a sign it’s already overtaxed. Pope glances at his watch to time it and picks up the blood pressure cuff. He shoves Fish’s sleeve up far as it will go to wrap it tight around his bicep.

“I’m such a fuck up.” Fish drops his head, fine spasms from deep within his chest threatening to break. “Can’t fucking do a damn thing right. Can’t even pull off a fucking heist without fucking it up for the world.”

Pope drags one bud of the stethoscope out of his ear, irritated. “I can’t hear shit, man.”

“Sorry.” 

Pope squeezes the bulb until the heavy tapping of Fish’s brachial pulse goes faint. He jots down his systolic and rips off the cuff with a crack. He checks his breathing last on purpose, dreading what he knows he’ll find—a diagnosis. 

“Ok. Turn.” 

He moves in a little closer to press the stethoscope high up on Fish’s back, between his shoulder blades. His skin burns beneath Pope’s fingers and Fish shivers. He’s starting to sweat again. Not a good sign.

“Alright.” He orders. “Deep as you can.”

Fish winces but obeys. At the slightest pull of his lungs, he immediately explodes into spasms so violent, he has to lean over to spit up a wad of reddish brown mucus. 

“Shit.” Pope mutters, digging through his pocket for a Kleenex. “Here.” He thrusts it forward. Fish gags, wiping his hands down.

“You good?” 

Fish nods, panting. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Pope places the stethoscope against his back again.

The fit leaves Fish breathless and sweaty. But Pope hears them loud as day once his breathing stabilizes—the rales. The telltale crackle of fluid and the wheeze of inflamed bronchi. He doesn’t need a degree to know what that means.

He’s fucked which means they’re all fucked. Pope mentally digs through his nearest contacts, wondering if there’s another sharp, shady, immoral, son of a bitch with a pilot license he can call up last minute.

He does know a handful of pilots in Colombia. But none of them are in. None of them are Fish.

Shit. Fuck. Fish drags his hand across his mouth and shudders. His heart is palpitating like crazy now through the stethoscope tubing, pounding erratically. Fish is panting from the pain trying to recover but the color is all but drained from his face. He doesn’t bounce back.

“Okay.” Pope pulls the stethoscope out of his ears and drapes it around his neck. “We’re done.”

Fish slumps forward, burying his head in his folded arms with a groan. He’s too wrung out to argue. He’s running hot which means the fever is probably hitting him back, on its upward trajectory. Pope swings his attention to completing the medical report, checking off boxes and filling in numbers.

“Can we…make a deal?” Fish asks quietly, breath finally evening out.

“Nope.” Pope starts packing up his kit.

“C’mon, I’ll pop some aspirin. Check myself into the nearest ICU once we land, I swear.”

“Just stop.” 

“We got any antibiotics?”

Typical Fish. Trying to cut a deal. 

“Not enough to get you over the Andes. You need fluids, meds. That cough is advanced, you been hiding this for days haven’t you?”

“Just trying to make this fucked up reunion even more fucked.” Fish sighs.

“Only you, Fish.” 

God bless him, he still makes one last try. “I feel okay.”

“These numbers say no. ”

He signs off on the report and stows the tablet. Quickly, he starts packing up his kit. They have to head back. Without thinking, Pope starts reciting.

“Your chest is wrecked. You sound like my _abuelo_. Your temp’s pushing 102 and you’re satting in the mid eighties. That’s low enough to qualify you for ventilation. You’re fucked both ways, Frankie. I ain’t getting in the backseat of any craft manned by anyone about to pass out.” He sighs, ruefully. “You gotta back out, man.”

“S’not that bad?” Fish shrugs, scratching his chin.

“It’s pneumonia, dipshit.” Pope sighs, turning the key in the ignition. “We’re miles away from any extraction, the closest field hospital is over that mountain.”

“All the more reason for me to go.” Fish’s eyes burn, staring absently out the window. 

“You’re not doing this.”

“Hell I’m not.”

“Fish—“ 

“I’m not losing out on 50 million over a cough either. Plus, you don’t know your way around a helo without GPS.”

“Let us worry about that. We’ll get you your share, just lie low in Bogota until we finish the job. Best option.”

Fish says nothing but stares into space, listlessly. He’s not buying it. It’ more than just the money, it’s the explanation. His absence. Letting them all down. Odd man out. His silence is heavy and irritating. But Pope can see too the weariness, the exhaustion of suppressed pain. He’s already spent so much energy into playing cool that it’s left him without any reserve when he needs it most.

“Sorry, man.” The apology is limp.

“Yeah, you sure are.” Fish mutters under his breath.

Pope heaves a sigh, pulling back in to the base. Hoping Benny and Iron don’t come around poking questions at him. He can’t do anything about Fish’s sulking so he tries to keep his eyes on the horizon, his brain focused on what’s ahead.

“What’re we gonna do?” Frankie swallows.

Pope doesn’t have a ready comeback to that.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Red doesn’t take the report well. 

There isn’t time on the agenda to waste rage on Fish but he’s reminding them all of just how much of a pain in the ass he can be. Benny and Iron have pushed into the huddle, wondering what the hold up is about.

It’s bad enough that Will got nicked and now Fish was out. Red has only one question.

“How fucked are we?” Red pinches the bridge of his nose.

“We’re not.” Fish asserts, arms crossed over his chest. “I can do this!” 

“Shut it, Fish.” Red snaps. He turns to Poe. “What’re we dealing with?”

Pope doesn’t hold back.

“Acute pneumonia, heavier on the left than on the right but….”

“Aw fuck, Frankie!” Iron explodes. “Were you even gonna say anything?”

“Back off, man.” Fish’s fists tighten at his side.

“We’re just worried about you, bro!” Benny spreads his hands, not wanting to stir the pot.

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” Iron asks the question for them all.

Red looks Fish dead in the face with a glare that could cut stone. Fish actually ducks his head down a little. 

“How you feeling, Morales? Fuck what the rest of these guys think, how do YOU feel right now?”

“Like the whole goddam universe is using me as an ashtray.” He chuffs bitterly, wiping his face with his hand. “Izzat what you wanna hear?”

“You _do_ look like shit.” Benny reaches out with a friendly arm to ruffle Fish’s sweaty hair beneath his cap. Miraculously Fish accepts the gesture and doesn’t give him a bloody nose.

“Eat a dick.” Fish flips him the bird.

“Don’t fuck with us, Morales. We don’t have time. I need you to be straight. Are you good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Fish grounds out through clenched teeth.

“Next question. Can you fly?”

“This a pop quiz?” Poe’s eyes nearly bug out of their sockets.

“We got options?” Red returns.

“Wait, Red! Come on…” Benny laughs uneasily, but Pope won’t be silenced.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” He explodes. “You can’t greenlight this, Tom. He’ll end up fucking killing us!”

“I’m your only shot.” Fish lifts his heavy head, eerily calm. “Any of you chuckleheads know how to get that bird off the ground? Huh?”

Benny and Pope stare helplessly at Red. “You can’t let him fucking do this, man.”

“He’s right. We have no choice.” Iron says.

“What?!” Cries Benny. 

Pope can’t believe what he’s hearing. This had not been part of the plan. Here and now was their final chance to abort.

“How many hours til the ocean?” Red’s focus remains on Fish.

“Once over the ridge? About four with visibility.”

Pope chuckles, he grabs Fish by the shoulder.

“Think you can fly straight for 4 hours? You can barely hold your head up and we don’t have a co-pilot! You’re solo, man! One fuck up and we’ll all end up in a ditch somewhere WITH our money!”

Fish rages, shoving back against Pope’s hold. His face glistens with sweat and two spots of bright red stand out on his cheeks. “I’ll pop some pills, I’ll do it. It’ll fucking suck but I’ll do it! I’m not backing out!”

The fit of coughing that ensues from his outburst fools no one. Only Red’s face doesn’t change.

Fish is saying exactly what he needs to hear. 

“Morales, stand down.” Redfly barks, pushing him back to let him ride out the fit in his inner elbow.

“Coulda said something, bro.” Benny whines plaintively. 

“Fuck you.” Is the only response Fish is mentally capable of, he wipes his mouth and straightens his spine.

“This is a bad idea.” Pope shakes his head.

“Says the asshole with the ORIGINAL bad idea! Don’t forget, this whole field trip started with you!” 

Fish storms out of the hangar. 

“Fuck this. I’m gonna check the net and gear up. Anyone too pussy to be airborne can stay here.”

“It doesn’t have to go down like this.” Pope makes one more plea but Red is making their decision for them. The plan is a go.

“Well, it’s gonna have to go down anyway. Gear up. We ship out in 400.”

“Hooah….” Iron mutters under his breath. His face speaks volumes.

Pope just stands there in disbelief, not quite able to push himself forward. Red meets his eyes.

“He’ll get us there, Pope. Just gotta have faith in him.”

Pop shakes his head. 

“If this goes down bad, **we** may be fucked but Fish? He’s a dead man. We’d be in the middle of the fucking jungle, on the run with hundreds of pounds of cash strapped to our backs! He needs Godzilla strength antibiotics, IV fluids, oxygen support. We have none of that shit on us now! If we go down…”

Red’s eyes flicker with something that looks like fear. “He had his chance to back out. He knows what he's getting into. Tell yer passenger, I want everyone aboard that bird in 5.”

Pope has a very bad feeling about this.


	4. WHEN IT RAINS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fish takes the wheel for them all. Pope, as his nickname suggests, prays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steal a drug lord's fortune, they said....  
> It'll be fun, they said....

The bird is revved, blades chopping the air with intense speed. The noise helps drown out the anxiety pulsing in his brain. Pope clips on his headset and switches the com link off to give Frankie first clearance over the PA.

How had he not called it sooner? In the trainyard during the debrief? At the bar? In the middle of the recon? He should have cleared Fish back then. If he’d been hiding a chest infection in the middle of torrential downpour, how had it not been made obvious? 

Maybe adrenaline does make a man blind. He has to admit, in the thick of it, clutching handfuls of insane money, he hadn’t even noticed Fish.

From the start, they’ve been bypassing too many red flags. Red is acting sloppy, not the hard-lined, uncompromising son of a bitch he's come to trust with his life. Letting Fish in the cockpit without a second thought? Madness!

“We’re gonna have a weight issue!” Fish yells above the din, punctuated by a round of short, wet hacks. Pope ignores it. He’s gotten used to the sound by now.

“Are we really going to leave $200 million dollars out on the runway?” Red shouts back.

Frankie backs down, visibly shrinking. He’s in enough shit. 

“Okay! She’ll make it! Let’s go!” 

Famous last words.

_Will you make it though, hermano?_

Red doesn’t know what Pope knows. Fish’s oxygen levels are slowly plunging as his lungs fill with fluid. He will tire out in a matter of hours just from his body’s efforts to oxygenate alone. Then there's the fever which won't get knocked back for long despite the pathetic Advil he's taken. Pope's stomach turns to ice. They won’t even make it to the Andes if Fish goes belly up.

True to his namesake, he mutters a prayer. The rosary beads he's carried in his pocket since their enlistment tangle with the pulse oximeter he's stashed there. 

Pope is thankful to have both on hand. If Frankie's sats start to dip anywhere near the 80’s, he’ll have to break out their emergency oxygen supply.

Rubbing both sacred objects with a finger, he thanks the Lord for his Grace and begs forgiveness for what he has done.

This hadn't been Fish's idea. Fish is innocent. He's just a smiling, beer-drinking, bowling alley champ who only wants to do the right thing no matter how many times he fails at it. 

He doesn't deserve to suffer this way.

 _It’s just six hours._ He tells himself, trying to reel in his panic. _In six hours this shit will be behind us. We’ll be on a boat headed to the mainland and Fish will be blowing his stash on the uninsured hospital stay he has waiting for him back home._

Pope takes the co-pilot position next to Fix, map in hand and ready to recite coordinates on command. He’s studied the game plan in case Fish blacks out but he can only pray he remembers enough technical flight basics to land them in a crisis.

It’s a gamble. None of them can actually fly this bird so Frankie must be awake and alert the entire flight.

Fish is ready at the controls, knuckles white around the thrust. Sweat gleams on his forehead. Pope shifts his gaze, pretending to be studying the flight manual one more time. In reality, he’s watching the rise and fall of Fish’s chest as he finishes up a final flight check. He counts 32 respirations in one minute. Elevated but then he’s stressing out.

No one misses the harsh gurgle of his throat clearing as Fish clicks on the PA.

“This is your captain.” He pauses to pull in a breath. “First stop, Peru. Hold on to yer tits.”

Pope can’t help but smirk. Fish’s eyes crinkle. At least he’s on game right now.

Pope’s gaze shifts beneath his seat, resting on the dark green canisters of emergency oxygen stowed there. 

The mood in the cargo is subdued and tense. 

Fish turns the ignition and they are smoothly brought to hover.

“Alright, Frankie…” He murmurs under his breath, watching the forest line recede and shrink beneath them out the side window. “…so far so good.”

 _“Si, si, cuidate cabron. Cuidate.”_ Yeah, yeah careful, motherfucker. Careful. Frankie eyes remain glued to the controls.

Pope lowers his voice, taking his headgear off. “The minute we touch down I want you on O2.”

Fish, to his surprise, only nods. It’s not a long flight to the border and Fish’s energy holds up fairly well but his breathing is still strained, Pope can hear him wheeze above the chopper blades. 

They've only been airborne about an hour when a transmission fizzles out over their frequency. The local flight control has already intercepted them. Pope curses, he hadn't been expecting them so soon.

_Dammit. Moment of non-truth_

"Designacion?" Designation? The voice over the shaky intercom asks.

Fish shoots him a look of fleeting panic. Pope clears his throat and opens up his link. _Let me handle this, you keep your eye on the thrust._

"Tripulación de transporte." Transport crew. He replies, mouth going dry.

"Que?" The voice demands again. Pope feels sweat form on his hairline. He answers in English just to sound more official. He keeps his voice steady, Adam's apple bobbing down.

"My designation is transport **co-pilot,** " he asserts, hoping that clears them.

No response. A heart-pounding pause. Fish gulps.

"Claro." _Proceed._ The transmission closes. They're cleared.

"You slippery bastard." Fish grins, shaking his head in relief.

The landing is uneventful but as the informant and her brother gather their belongings, Pope takes another look at Fish. He’s holding out but he’s exhausted. While the rest of them catch some shut eye, Fish is the only one keeping both eyes wide open. It's taking its toll.

“You got this?” He asks, once they’re landed on the tarmac in Peru.

“Yeah.” Is all Fish says. Without asking, Pope clips the pulse ox on his finger. He sucks in a breath. 85.

“Listen," he tells Fish. "We have maybe 30 to unload these two and contact their man on the inside. Get some shut eye in the meantime.”

Fish shakes his head. “Thirty’s too risky, I just wanna touch down and get out.”

“You're sliding, Frankie. Your oxygen is low.” He reaches under the seat, fumbling for the emergency reserve. “There’s enough in these canisters to last about a day, give or take. Suck up some air and sit back for a few. We need you on full throttle once we’re cleared to lift.”

He can see Fish swallow as he gazes at the clear plastic mask in Pope’s hand. It’s as though he’s accepting the severity of his illness and he’s scared. Pope understands so he places the mask and its tubing in Frankie's hands.

“Just take it, _pendejo._ You’ll perk up in seconds. Promise”

Reluctantly, Fish takes the mask and stretches the elastic band over his head securely. Pope checks the connection and opens the valve, watching the inside of the mask fog with Fish’s breath. He waits a few minutes and checks the pulse ox again. Fish has jumped back to the 90’s. He all but sags in relief.

“Feel better?”

Fish nods. His chest is moving easier now, slower and less labored.

Maybe, Pope dares hope, this day will not end in disaster after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I did there? ^_~ More soon


	5. DROP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fish saves the day for everyone but himself

Pope really doesn’t want to bail on Fish but whenever he blinks, his head drops to his chest and he loses time. His body is ready to crash even if his brain isn't.

Night leeches gradually out of the sky. The peaks of the Andes loom before them, the ultimate end to this botched operation. Daybreak paints their visual, the strengthening rays glowing warmer and stronger as they approach. So far, Fish has been able to coast maintaining an altitude of 5,000. The mountain will change all that.

As much as he wants to enjoy the scenery, he’s more intent on putting it far behind them.

“Hey.” He says to Fish, voice thick with sleep. “I’m gonna hit the back. You good?”

“Yeah.” Fish murmurs, his positioning easy in the seat, hand loose around the control. The oxygen mask hangs around his neck. “Running on auto mostly.”

“Well look alive. We’ll be approaching those peaks in another 40 I’d say. Better get ready for lift.” Pope peers out the window. They’re at 5, 000 now and the bird’s stability is holding up despite the overweight. He still needs to hear it from Fish’s mouth, somehow. The peaks at their height are over 11,000 feet and this ship wasn’t built for this kind of maneuver. 

“Think we can clear it?”

Fish’s throat bobs. “I dunno.” 

Pope has to accept that as final. 

Red makes his way in from cargo hold, poking his head into the cockpit to relieve him. 

“How we doing up here boys?”

The first thing he notices is the O2 mask around Fish’s neck. His eyebrows lift.

“Fish?”

“He’s ok.” Pope answers for him, easing out of his seat to give it up to Red. “Just took the edge off.”

He lumbers into the cargo, barely awake. If all goes well, he’ll only have the next hour to clock any real rest before landing.

“I’m gonna try between those two peaks.” Is the last thing Pope hears. His body feels it when Fish pulls on the throttle and drags her into a climb.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Their ascent was iffy from the start.

The next thing he hears is Fish panting rapidly over the intercom. “It’s too much fucking weight!”

Pope springs into action, rushes to the cockpit. “What’s going on?”

The bird has yet to clear the peak but they’re shakily gaining altitude. As they climb she gets more and more unsteady, battered by the strong winds and pulled by the overbearing weight. Their balance is already off and the engines don’t have enough power to clear the top. He feels it when the entire helo gives a violent warning rattle.

“Can we make it over?” Pope asks again.

“I don’t know.” Is the honest answer. From the look of things, he’s not sure they even have a prayer.

Even grazing the top of the ridge with the net could send them into a spin. Pope has gone over the bail plan in his head countless times, has memorized the location of every item in his head. He knows where the exits are by feel. In a cabin full of smoke, no one ever sees the EXIT sign until it’s too late. Parachutes, too, are nothing more than a security blanket in the midst of disaster. One rarely has time to say, “Perhaps we are in a situation where we should think about abandoning the —” _Crunch._

Fish’s face streams with sweat, his breath increasing. He appears outwardly calm but he’s under immense stress. 

“Come on baby, come on baby.”

Rays pierce his eyes from the other side of the ridge, jarring his visibility. Fish squints as the harsh light washes over his face. Just one more push and Fish can start to descend, get out of this unstable danger zone. Just as soon as they--

“We’re redlining!” Pope gasps, jabbing his finger at the flaring alarm in front of Fish. Any more height and they run risk of a fatal yaw.

“Yeah. But we’re close.” Red ignores the warning, urging Fish to keep on course. 

Pope’s heart is beating a thousand miles a minute.

The craft shudders, then jolts. Pope catches the acrid tang of smoke as the strangled engine sputters, rattles, then fails.

They drop backwards.

“One of the gear boxes has blown.” Fish spits out, eyes intent on the control panel. “I don’t want to go into a spin.”

“Get us down by that lower ridge!” Red orders.

“I’m trying!” Fish pants, trying to regain control.

A pilot’s single biggest chance of surviving an emergency landing must be entered instantaneously. Fish doesn’t have time to process. Once at a yaw, the craft will spin out of control and send itself hurtling to the ground unless he makes a succession of immediate correct decisions.

Fish has never been that lucky.

“I’m losing altitude.” He keeps his tone in status report. “I’m trying to get her back to flat.” He's gulping each breath but he's not panicking yet. Not until--

“I can’t land with that net under us!” He’s guiding them down into the valley, close to a plantation they’d marked earlier. There’s only so much he can do against the threat of a tailspin. The faster they lose altitude, the more strain gets exerted on the craft. If they are lucky, it will not land on its engine and explode on touchdown. Fish trades the main rotor’s rotational energy for a reduction in forward velocity and rate of descent. He has already accepted they are going down. How many pieces they’ll wind up in on impact depends on one thing.

“LOSE THE MONEY OR WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!” He yells.

They cut the net loose and Benny along with it.

The aircraft yaws violently in the direction opposite that of the main rotor’s rotation. Fish initiates autorotation, which looks and feels “wrong.” Closer to the ground, he tries to flare and cushion touchdown. As the aircraft makes contact with the ground, it rolls over on its side and beats on itself with the remnants of the main rotor blades.

"Bad landing!" Fish laments. 

Ugly yes but are they burnt to a crisp? Pope takes it as a win.

All Pope knows in that moment is that he is being flung violently against the wall of the cargo hold. He braces himself , shielding his head with his folded arms until the entire wreckage judders to a halt. 

Panic ensues. Benny shouts for his brother, running at full speed for the doomed craft. Pope and Red make quick work of their exit, choking and coughing on the thick black fumes of fuselage smoke.

Will manages to climb out on his own power so Benny shifts his objective, frantically calling for Fish.

“Fish! Fish!” He cuts a beeline for the window of the cockpit.

Fish had been thrown forward by the crash, restrained by the safety strap. He sits trapped, weakly trying to untangle himself from the harness. Benny decimates the window with several hard kicks, sending a spray of glass showering into Fish’s face and lap. Ignoring the shards, Benny reaches in to pull him up and out of the demolished cockpit.

“I need oxygen!” He shouts. Fish sags against him, coughing. A decent cut bleeds sluggishly down his face, dripping deep red into his left eye but otherwise, he is whole. 

The smoke is noxious and blinding but Fish’s movements are particularly uncoordinated. He relies on Benny to guide him to the place where Red, Pope and Will have formed a regroup.

“Alright, sound off. Everyone alright?” Red asks. Will nods. His wound is no better or worse for the ride.

“Pope?”

“I’m good.”

“Benny?”

“One piece.”

“Fish?” Red barks. Fish sways unsteadily on his feet, gasping for breath as though it pains him. 

“FISH!”

Gravity wins once again. Fish’s knees buckle and he keels forward, eyes rolling back into his head.

“Man down!” Benny yells, catching him as he slumps into the damp field grass. “Fuck, FISH!”

“Shit! Shit!” Pope wastes no time, darting back into the hull, searching frantically for his medi pack. 

“Get that o2 over here NOW!” Benny already has Fish prone, Will at his head scrambling to fit the plastic mask over his nose and mouth. He loosens Fish’s jacket, speaking to him in a litany of unheard reassurance the entire time.

_You’re ok, bro. Just hang on. We gotcha Fishcake._

Pope digs through the wreckage until he finds what he's looking for, jostled from its original storage location. Scanning the remains frantically, he gathers every last O2 tank his eyes land on. Some of them rattle, near empty. Others have more weight. He arms 5 tanks and shoves them into his bag. Sprinting back, he skids to his knees beside Fish and rips open the pack. Will already has fingers planted firm beneath Fish’s jaw. All three fall into triage mode.

“I got a pulse.” 

“What’s your count?”

Will, always quick with numbers, does a lightening-fast calculation. “About 120. But it feels weak.”

“That’s from the rush. He’ll be ok.”

“You sure man?” Benny’s eyes are scared. 

“Yeah. Help me, bend his knees.”

The first thing Pope addresses is airway. Setting the dial on one of the 02 tanks, he checks the gauge on the regulator to ensure the tank has pressure. He then quickly jams the breathing tube to the port. He sets the flow to 1.5 liters per minute and listens for the hiss of release. The fog misting beneath the mask tells him oxygen is flowing. He digs back into the pack for the pressure cuff.

“Aw, Frankie.” Will murmurs, running his hand through Fish’s matted hair beneath his cap. Fish’s lids begin to flutter and twitch as he comes to, head turning from side to side.

“He’s coming round!” Benny’s voice cracks with relief. “Hey, you back with us Catfish?” 

Pope grabs his pen light, pulling down Fish’s lower lids to assess pupil reaction. No sign of obvious bleeds or breaks though the head wound will need a gauze. Better than sutures, Pope figures. 

He is, indeed, regaining consciousness and Pope knows that when he does resurface, he’s going to be confused. He is also going to feel like shit.

“Santi?” Fish rasps, coughing into the mask.

“Welcome back, _carajohead._ Your BP just bottomed out but you’re gonna be ok. Just breathe.” 

Will scrambles to Fish’s opposite end, shoving his backpack beneath his sneakers to elevate his legs. He watches Pope anxiously as he checks his blood pressure, snaking his stethoscope beneath the cuff wrapped around his arm.

“Eighty over fifty.” He announces. 

“That bad?” Will chews his lip.

“Yeah, he tanked pretty low.” He’s plunged but still within range for an adrenaline crash. The fever and infection would have gotten to him first if the landing hadn’t. Pope moves on with assessing his respiration, pressing the scope against his chest. Congestion still present but he’s breathing evenly at least.

“Can’t say I blame him.” Will heaves a broken sigh.

The tachy staccato beat of Fish’s heart drowns out the din of Red’s rage. He’s assessing the parameter as a commander always does.

“Shit! It landed in that field. We gotta get it back, we gotta—“

“Give him a minute!” Will roars. “He just saved our asses!”

Red isn’t being overly irrational, either. They need to get the money back and they need to get mobile before the the locals catch wise. Lorea had pockets of loyalists scattered about the rural municipalities and given that this particular field happens to be growing cocaine, they likely have weapons already trained on them. 

“Hey Benny!” Pope, done with his assessment, starts packing his gear away. “Got any candy? Mints or something?” A blood sugar boost will rev him up quicker. At the very least, it’ll get him on his feet without sending him crashing back down immediately. Benny digs in his back jeans pocket and produces half a roll of lifesavers, glued together by humidity. He pries one of the orange candies loose, lifts up the oxygen mask and places it under Fish’s tongue like a benediction.

“Pope, read ‘im his last rites.” He jokes.

Pope chuffs a strained laugh. His fingers rub against the rosary beads kept safe in his vest pocket.

“Mmmm…” Fish smiles weakly, closing his eyes. “Izzat tropical lifesavers?”

“How’d you know?”

“Addicted to 'em, man.”

“Don’t ever do that again, you smelly son of a bitch!” Benny chides, mussing his already tangled hair.

Benny looks over at his brother who sits nearly slumped over with relief.

Frankie’s face looks better after Pope flushes out the head wound and tamps the bleeding down with gauze. His cheeks are no longer sickly white and his vitals are leveling out.

“I’m ok boys.” His chest rises and falls slowly. “I’m ok.” 

The bird pops and smokes behind them, in its final death throes.

“Yeah, you are, pal.” Benny pats him on the stomach. His eyes are wet. “You really are.”


	6. BENEDICTION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After landing the helicopter on a wing and a prayer, negotiations with the locals do not go down as well as hoped.

They had no plan B. 

Plan A, for that matter, had been flushed down the toilet miles ago. But here they were, making up Plan B as they went along.

Improvisation in the military field is tricky. It can save just as many lives as it can end them. They're making fast decisions based on too many uncertainties.

But someone has to take the lead.

Red wastes no time assigning positions. It’s plain where his priorities lie. Their next move is to retake their money fast. Voices from afar indicate that the townspeople are already poking into what they shouldn’t. If Pope plays it cool, they might just be on their way without leaving too many ripples.

Or bodies.

Fish stands on shaky feet but Red isn’t entrusting anything larger than a field weapon to him. Instead, he assigns him close to Benny as back up, ready to take out any potential gunmen concealed in the over brush.

Just like everything else in this cursed operation, the talks sour rapidly into confusion and anger. They are accused of being DEA. There are shouts of a stakeout. A blade gets flashed, too near to Pope for his liking. But it is only a bark, not a bite. 

He jumps back in shock, nonetheless, when the man gripping the machete abruptly folds in on himself, red spurting from the wound in his head.

_What’s another bad judgement?_

These are farmers. They work the land. They are born holding knives—to cut away sod packed solid as rock, to hack at weeds and chop firewood. To slice bread and meat for their midday meal. To skin rabbits. Whittle toys for their children. He has seen countless old men in this country produce knives from their belts when asked to do something as inane as opening an envelope. 

Not to wield against two armed white men.

Santiago may have been born here but these men no longer see him as their countryman.

 _Perhaps they're right,_ Pope thinks, as the man’s blood spreads rapidly beneath his boot, mingling into mud with the soil he worked upon. _In their eyes, he is no better than a white man working for a white country._

Pope stares down at the farmer whose untimely death he has just brought about. There is every chance in the world that he had been prepared to attack. There is also every chance that the man was merely gesticulating and forgotten he’d been holding a knife in his hand.

It doesn’t matter know.

In the end, six farmers lie dead in the field and for each one, three women clamber around them. Mothers, wives, and daughters--all screaming and shrieking their grief at the same time. It is the most terrible sound Pope has ever heard.

Fish sees right away what has been done and his complexion goes chalky all over again. He squats down on his heels, hands clasped over his hung head. He looks like he is about to puke.

“Get them outta here! Fish, move yer ass!” Red barks an order. “Tell them to move back. Move! Move!”

Robotically, Fish obeys, shouting in Spanish for the crowd to disperse, move back, step away. Step away before more fingers slip.

Step away from the money.

Reparations are quick. Red makes it very clear to the community elder that he has no compunctions whatsoever in taking what they need and shooting anyone who gets in the way.

It’s like they’re back in a war—a war they began all by themselves.

By the time their supplies are loaded onto mules and the money is once again secured in their possession, Fish’s cough makes a re-appearance. 

“Fish?” Benny slaps him on the back. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Fish’s shoulders shake as the fit tapers off, eyes glassy. 

He’s not good though.

He's on his third break, sitting on the edge of a discarded tractor tire. He looks exhausted. They are all tired and shell-shocked but Fish? Fish is Iceman. Fish never breaks and here he sits, completely done. Of them, he's the only one who hadn't clocked any sleep. He's fighting it now, eyes fluttering closed and head nodding against his chest.

Benny perks suddenly.

“Hey! I got an idea!” Leaving Fish sitting on a discarded tractor tire, he takes off in the direction of the barn.

“Benny!” Red calls after him, fuming. “Get your ass back here! Benny!”

It’s not just the breathing that has Pope worried. The trek is at least two days until they reach the mountain base. That alone will kill him if the dehydration doesn’t off him first. Every time he takes a breath, his accessory muscles clench and weaken. He’s in a lot of pain and the only thing they have to fight it is fucking Tylenol. 

We all have a field medkit. Pope mentally indexes what each standard personal box contains. Gauze, OTC pain relief, suture and tape. Not much else. He has his med pack but it contains only diagnostic tools and the half empty canisters of oxygen. 

Will pulls him aside.

“How’s our O2 supply?”

“Could be better.” Pope admits. “About a day’s worth maybe, day and a half depending on demand.”

“He’ll need every last drop once we start the climb.”

“I’m worried he’ll need it even before then.”

Just then, Red catches something in the distance, shaking his head in disbelief. “The fuck is this?”

It’s Benny, leading what looks to be a decent sized chestnut colored draft horse. He waves as he gets closer, pulling the indifferent animal along by the bit.

“Look Frankie, I gotcher a ride.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Will groans. “We can’t take that into the jungle!”

“Frankie ain’t walking all the way to the Andes.” Benny tells him and he’s not to be argued with. 

The horse swishes its tail and whickers softly, ears twitching at the swarm of tiny black flies gathered around its eyes. Fish stands, placing his hand on the animal’s smooth neck. It seems amiable.

"Hola." He addresses it like he would a friend, holding his hand out for the horse to blow on. It noses him, immediately trusting.

“You stink, buddy.” He chuckles tiredly, rubbing its long bony forehead.

“No worse n’ you. Now mount up.”

He accepts Benny’s hand in hoisting him and his long legs up and over the saddle with a heave. He’s not new to riding. Normally Fish would be playing cowboy and joking, raised his whole life on a California ranch. But his shoulders sag and his body slumps forward. It’s all he can do to keep his shaking grip on the horn. He'll probably fall asleep sitting upright. 

“Hey, if things go to shit, we can always eat it?” Benny adds, eliciting a disgusted look from his brother.

“Yer fuckin disgusting.”

Pope nods at Red, gesturing for a few feet away. “Hey Tom, a word?”

Red does not look pleased but he relents, following Pope until they are half hidden by foliage.

“We’re about to drag Fish on the last leg of a mission that has a very real likelihood of ending him.”

Red is unaffected. “He knew what he was getting into.”

Pope doesn’t suppress the anger in his voice when he jabs one finger into Red's chest.

“He’ll do anything you order him to. You fucking that. He doesn’t know where to draw the line. He’s needs YOU to do that. I say we leave him here.”

“That’s a joke. They’ll slit his throat here.”

“No they won’t. At the very least, they’ll have a radio to order an ambi or a busted jeep he can drive to the next town in. Get some help.”

“Look I know this isn’t how you planned things to go down. But there’s only the four of us. Fish ain’t gonna last long on his own out here, even with other people. And if any of us split to stay with him, that leaves just two of us to haul this entire load up the Andes and onto a boat." He blows out his breath to punctuate, shakes his head ruefully. "It’s not possible. At least this way he has a chance of making it out with his load!”

Pope rubs at the deepening dent in the middle of his forehead. He knows that Red is right. Frankie will never agree to being cut loose. But he’s still got to say his piece, much as Red doesn’t want to hear it.

“His fever’s gonna get worse before it gets better. If he doesn’t have ARDS yet, he’s about to. I say we get the hell out, dump him in the next patch of civilization we find and go the rest on our own.”

“Lorea’s men are stationed in almost every village here. He’s too weak to fight ‘em off solo. He’s better off with us to have his back.”

“Even if he slows us down?”

“As long as we make it with the money.”

“And Fish.” Pope adds. _Not Or._

“And Fish.” Red agrees.

_Santa Maria._ Pope rubs his rosary bead over and over, one by one. _Protect us._


	7. NANITA NANA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fish's fever worsens drastically as the bedraggled team begin their doomed trek to the Andes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything just sucks for Fish right now.
> 
> Definitely not what he signed up for.

The trill of the bird calls mingle with the growls, snorts and grunts of the mules as they trudge through the thick foliage. Visibility is low beneath the lush canopy of the jungle and the smell of rotting vegetation permeates everything. 

Pope knows they only have a handful of sunlight hours left and that determines their every move. Once night falls, they must make full stop. On top of the threat of gaining unwanted attention from nocturnal predators, the last thing any of them needs is for one of the hoofers to slip, fall and break a leg.

They need that like a hole in the head.

The village and its devastation lie two hours behind them. They have no gear beyond a stolen blanket or two. Limited light source. Limited supplies. The jungle itself isn’t completely barren, however. Mangoes hang on the vines and bananas bunches are common along the path. This perks up both the humans and the interested mules.

Fish’s horse, the agreeable chestnut _criollo_ , is the only one not complaining, snaking its long neck to the side to take an occasional bite out of the scenery. Its broad chest and sturdy legs make it untroubled by its unexpected change of environment. Pope walks beside it, leading its step through the trickier pathways and over the thick network of vines. 

Uncertainty hangs in the warm wet air, louder than the din of the surrounding forest.

All Pope needs to do is look at him to know.

Fish is beginning to lose his grip. 

A man can’t get much rest in a saddle, much less one already down. Sweat runs down his neck and face, magnified by exhaustion and the humid conditions. Sooner rather than later, they will be forced to stop. Fish can’t stay up much longer.

Pope doesn’t need his fingertips to know his skin is hot to the touch. He can see the distended arteries in his neck pulse rapidly due to the elevation in heart rate. His eyes are closed, grip lax on the horn, and when any of them rouse him for water, it takes several extra seconds for him to locate the person speaking to him. 

This scares Pope a lot, actually. He looks up at the sky. The air is swollen, threatening to burst. If Fish can just push on for a little longer, they can cover more ground and they might—

But one look at Fish and he knows it’s pointless. 

The dehydration is getting to him. His lips have become dry and cracked, mouth breathing more intense as his respiratory rate increases. Wheezing, bubbling sounds punctuate each exhale, a reminder of the infection. Already short of breath, his lungs labor as they head down the path. He’s wobbling dangerously in the saddle, not enough strength left even to stay awake. 

“Hey!” Pope squeezes the bridle to signal the horse to stop. “Give us a second.” He says, holding up the hand signal for halt so that Red can see it from his positon. 

Reaching behind to grab one of the bungee cords from his pack, he carefully ties it around Fish’s waist, winding it tight around the horn. He’s this close to slipping off. He’s had several close calls already.

“He ain’t looking too good.” Benny’s brows are pinched with worry. He turns to Red at the front. “We should stop soon. Frankie’s winding down.”

Red double backs, handing his mule off to Benny so he can join Pope at the rear and assess the situation. Pope half expects a lecture from him but instead Red takes in Fish’s flushed face, the way his eyes roll back in his head, unfocused and wandering. He’s acting either drugged or half asleep and doesn’t even notice when Red reaches up to palm the back of his neck with a short hiss.

“Shit.” 

He meets Pope’s eyes and, to Pope’s silent relief, they come to an agreement for once.

Pope has barely finished tying off the knot around Frankie’s waist when he unravels it again, tugging loose the cords and gently nudging Fish’s limp body towards him.

“Break camp! We’ll start up again in the morning. Will, help pack these mules away. Benny, you get the horse.”

He nods to Pope, unspoken agreement that Fish is now his responsibility.

“Ok Frankie,” Pope pats his thigh. “We’re done for the day.”

Frankie murmurs something against Pope’s shoulder as he hefts his overly-warm deadweight out of the saddle, hugging him close to prevent him from sliding onto the wet ground. Once he’s tucked under Pope’s arm he begins coughing again, that ceaseless gurgling a vice tightening in Pope’s brain. 

Fish is so sick and they have nothing.

_Dancing with the devil? He’d call this outright fornication._

“Fish?” He pats Frankie’s cheek with his palm, hoping he won’t have to resort to more aggressive stimulus response. To his relief, Fish’s eyes flutter open and he glances around, confused.

“We…” He clears his raw throat. “…we stopped?”

“Yeah. Red broke camp. Come on.” He slings Frankie’s arm over his neck and together they begin walking.

“Santi?” Frank moans.

“Uh-huh?”

“I did good, right? I got us…got us down. It…” he chokes. “It…wasn’t my fault, I told im…told ‘im there was too much weight.” He sounds lost and a little frightened. “Don’t…” he swallows. “…don’t tell ‘im bout…the coke rap, I wasn’t…”

Pope’s belly turns to ice. 

“You did good, Frank.” He tells him firmly. “You did real good. We’re gonna take a load off, okay? Come on. Look alive.”

Pope leads him to the hollowed shell of a fallen kapok tree, its twisted shape creating an overhang to at least provide partial cover from the oncoming downpour. The ground beneath him is slippery and wet but he manages to get himself and Frankie inside the trunk. He can feel the burning heat of Fish's skin through his clothes, despite their dampness and the gentle rain. He's on fire.

Finished sorting the horse in a place to graze, Benny trots over to Pope while Red and Will unpack what gear they have to break camp. He finds Pope manhandling Fish out of his field jacket and button up.

“What’s up with Fish?” Benny’s voice holds a trace of panic.

“Fever’s spiked. Help me get these layers offa him. We gotta bring down his temp.”

Benny is more than able to hold Fish steady in his lap, arms wrapped securely about his waist in a bear hug as Pope strips him down to his T-shirt. 

“Bet that feels better, don’t it Fish?”

Fish shivers uncontrollably against him, teeth rattling in his mouth. “Fuck me, he’s burning up!” Benny rubs Frankie’s shoulder in an effort to comfort him. “Aw, Fish.”

Pope, meanwhile, digs in his utility until he finds a water bottle. Cracking open the cap, he thrusts it in Fish’s shaking hands.

“Hey, hydrate.” He pushes the bottle firmer when Fish doesn’t respond immediately. “You need to water up.”

Lethargic but awake, Fish finds his grip on the bottle. Tipping his head back, he drains it without stopping.

“Slow down, bro.” Benny smirks. “You drink like a fish.”

“Never heard that before.” Fish murmurs breathlessly. His eyes are a fraction more lucid now, the cold water perking him up. 

“Thirsty?” Pope asks, squatting down in front of him.

“Yeah.”

“Up for one more?” He offers another.

“Why?”

“Cuz ya gotta take these.” He shakes a clear orange prescription bottle.

“What’re those?” Fish squints.

“The white ones? Anti-biotics. The orange ones just good old fashioned Advil.”

“And the ones that Santi gives you don’t do anything at all.” Benny mutters under his breath.

Frankie gazes down at the pills skeptically but pops them in his mouth, washing them down with another long pull from the bottle.

“Should take the edge off til we reach the base of the mountain. I have only one other dose. After that, it’s all you.”

Red and Will join them in the makeshift shelter. “How you feeling bud?”

“Golden.” Fish mutters.

“Truth.” Red persists. Fish closes his eyes and props himself up against the rotting trunk wall.

“Chest hurts like a bitch. Head kinda woozy. Tired. But otherwise….”

“Good enough for government work?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, bottling a cough in his chest. His eyes do not open. “Good enough.”

Red convenes next to Pope while the brothers split a mango, plopping himself down to examine the field map and plan notes.

“To get to the boat will be a day and a half, maybe two.” Pope explains. “If Fish can hold out past the old smuggler’s trail, we may have a shot.”

“Ya think that horse can make it up there?” Its weight and girth were not made for narrow, fragile mountain paths. Pope shakes his head, running a hand through his messy hair.

“I dunno,” He sighs, already heavy with exhaustion. “We’ll have to see what we’re dealing with when we reach the trail.”

Red pulls his cap down over his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest and settles into himself with a long exhale.

“Well, g’night boys.”  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The downpour continues through the night, a heavy pelting of water that batters against the tree tops and drowns out the sound of everything else. The camp is wind-swept and bitterly chilly by the time the sky blackens. Thunder rumbles and foil-bright lightening shimmers against the darkness.

Fish sleeps on and off, propped between the trunk wall and Pope who opts to stay nearby, shoulders hunched against the damp and cold. He’s thrown the emergency blanket over Fish to keep his temperature regulated. The climate extremes put more stress on his already weakened body and he needs all the sleep he can get.

Which, in reality, is not much. Night in the jungle is a terror.

The constant movement and noise of the forest floor rattle Fish’s brain, disorienting him into hallucinatory panic. The Advil must have worn off for at around 14:00, Pope starts awake to find Fish turning and mumbling restlessly. A reflexive kick catches him in the thigh and he scrambles to the other side of Fish, clicking on his emergency light to get a better look. 

Fish is hyperventilating, soaking wet and eyes wide. The commotion gets Will’s attention, who breaks his Watch, to investigate.

“Hey.” He whispers to Pope. “He alright?”

“I dunno.” Pope tries to rouse him, trying his best to gather Fish’s body in his arms to contain his struggles. The last thing he needs to do is hurt himself.

“He’s bad ain’t he?” Will asks soberly.

Pope looks directly at Will. He can't lie.

“Yeah.”

He holds Fish in a grip of iron, ignoring his weakened shoves, speaking softly to him in the hopes that Fish even hears him.

“Tranquillo, tranquillo. Calma, Francisco. Que te calma, tu. Estas bien. It’s all good, hermano.”

“No.” Fish voice cracks out a sob, eyes open but unseeing, darting frantically from the fever. “M’gonna die out here. M’gonna rot out in this jungle like some trash. Never gonna hold my girl again, oh fuck!” Tears leak from the corners of his eyes, down his flushed face. His shoulders shake. “I want my baby.”

Pope cradles him close and rocks gently back and forth, aware all eyes are on him as he tries to talk Fish down.

“Shhh! Stop it, Fish. You’re going home, papi. You’re gonna see her soon, ok? Lo promete.”

The empty words do nothing to ease his friend’s distress. 

“My baby…” Fish sobs, turning his face into Pope’s chest. Pope feels his entire body shaking uncontrollably as he sobs over and over. 

“Mi nenita, mi bebe…por favor….”

“Lemme see her, Fish. You gotta picture?” Pope asks softly. His eyes search his friends’ faces, frantic. “Any of you got her picture?”

“I got one.” Benny is already on his SmartPhone, desperately flipping through his photos, the glare from the screen illuminating his terrified face.

Red whispers harshly to Will. “We gotta keep him quiet. Lorea’s men could be posted anywhere.” 

"We'll do a sweep." Will agrees softly, out of earshot.

“Found it!” Benny cries, excited. “Here she is, Frankie! I got her!” Benny kneels down in the leaves next to Pope and hands him the phone.

“There she is.” He chokes, handing over his phone. Pope recognizes Fish’s girlfriend—Marla—in the photo. He’d been hoping to pop the big question to her until they were both sidelined by the arrival of Marcella.

Marla is beaming, in a hospital bed, holding Marcella just hours old.

At the first glimpse of his daughter, Frankie’s hectic breathing hitches and slows.

He swipes left. Another photo. The dark eyed infant with a thatch of thick black curls captured mid-yawn in her yellow blanket.

“Tell us about her, Fish.” Will presses, hoping to keep Fish talking and alert.

Fish sniffs, his limbs relaxing in Pope’s grip, his breaths evening out. He is still shivering but his panicked delirium is beginning to wane.

“Fuh-First time I held her?” He swallows, tripping on a faulty breath. A distant smile spreads across his face as though he is miles away. “I looked straight in her eyes? I swear to God, I forgot my own damn name for an entire day!” He swipes at his damp eyes, tracing the screen gently with his fingertip.

Pope smiles down at him. “I bet.”

“She’s my best girl.” Fish chokes, face screwing up again, tears wet on his dark lashes. “Mi preciosa, mi nenita linda.”

“You’re gonna get back to her, hear me?” Pope looks him straight in the eye. “You’re gonna get on that boat, get yourself checked into ICU and after that get on the first plane back to Cali.” 

He says this with a fierce promise Fish needs to hear. But Fish is so weak, his lungs tired of fighting. The fever has drained him completely and the Andes are another day away. 

“I wanna…” He sniffs, swallows wetly. “…wanna hold her…want her here in my arms right the fuck now so bad, Santi.”

Pope holds him close, pressing his lips to the top of his disheveled head.

“I know, Frankie. She’s waiting for you, waiting to see her papi.”

“Papi…” Fish gives a weak chuckle, eyes closed. “….never thought anyone…sides Marla…would ever c-call me….that.” His chest rises and falls, his breathing more labored as he speaks.

Will and Benny exchange troubled glances.

“You’re wearing yourself out, Fish.” Will whispers, rubbing his arm, desperate to get him back to sleep. “Get some more shut eye, ok?”

The phone clicks off, pitching them back into blackness. The wind has died down mercifully and at last, there is something resembling peace.

He lets Fish sag against his shoulder, hoping he’s providing even a little body heat.

He’s never seen Fish this terrified…or this sick. He’s seen him strung out after a 4 day heroin bender. He’s seen him at his lowest point after losing his job. He's seen him rambling and distorted after a straight week on the sauce and no pain can compare to the one he feels for him right now.

Fish breathes in and out against Pope’s shoulder, his mind wandering once again as he drifts back into exhausted sleep. As he sways back and forth, he can hear his weak voice singing to his girl.

_“A la nenita nana, nanita ella, nanita ella._  
Mi nina tiene sueno  
Bendito sea bendito sea...” 

Pope knows these words well. Every Hispanic baby in the country has fallen asleep to this prayer set to music. As Fish’s trembling voice wavers and drifts, his own carries the lullaby for him until the song is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never wanted to actually apologize to a character in a whump fic before. Jesus Fish, I'm sorry. Not sorry.


	8. BACK IN THE SADDLE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a huddle, the boys settle on a treatment plan for Fish to get them up and moving again. It ain't pretty.

Morning settles over like a bad trip. 

Feeble sunlight against the cloud cover wash everything in a pale dreariness. Last night’s downpour has receded to a mist. Pope feels each icy whisper against his skin and shivers while his operative uniform slowly takes on a deeper, more rocky hue. Fish lies sleeping next to him, shaking as though he will never get warm again. At least he’s able to sleep despite the cold and the pain in his chest. Under two soaked blankets and the added layer of Benny’s sweater, his limbs tremble as his body’s survival kicks in.

Last night did a number on him. 

Pope thinks he has slept or at least, he feels his body weighed down by the drugged illusion of sleep. His mind won’t stop picking apart the threads of events, the dreadful possibilities that lie hidden in wait on their path and what it will take to surpass them. He listens to every cough and wheeze Fish makes and, as the pathetic morning glow begins to creep into his eyes, he makes himself a promise—Fish is getting home. By any means possible. 

He prods Fish, experimentally, but the man is dead asleep. Shifting him over on his back doesn't take much power but gets no reaction. He trains his gaze on Fish as he breathes, watching for indications of distress. Counting the rise and fall of his chest and multiplying by two reveals he's working too hard to take air in. Placing a gentle hand on his throat, he can feel the prominence of the sternocleidomastoid muscle with each inhale, a sign of forced inspiration. Pushing up the hem of his shirt, he can see Fish's belly moving with each exhale. He's using accessory muscles just to breathe. At the rate he's going, he'll tire out within a day.

Pope chews his lip, glancing at his med pack. They do have supplemental oxygen but he's going to need every last drop for the climb. But if he's struggling this much to breathe already....

His troubled thoughts are broken by the sounds of his teammates rising.

Red is already up and moving, having taken the last Watch rotation. Will and Benny are also on their feet, packing up what little they’ve unpacked. Neither will say it, but they too have lost out on much needed rest over Fish.

All too aware of the threat of jungle warfare with one man down, Red’s orders are neat and non-negotiable. The two day trek must be completed exactly on that timeline lest the boat waiting on the other side abandons them. Lest Lorea and his conglomerates catch up to them. Lest any more deadly miscalculations get made.

Red holds up four fingers and draws a circle in the air with one pointer. Pope recognizes the silent signal for a huddle. 

He leans over with a pained grunt, shaking Fish by the shoulder. “Hey Fish! Get up! Red’s callin’ group.”

“Let 'im sleep!” Red waves him over, dropping the silence. “He’s one of the things we have to discuss.”

Pope rises uncertainly, leaving Fish’s prone form shivering against the trunk. Fish would lose his mind if he knew he were being excluded. But it is difficult to rouse him. Two fingers on his neck tell Pope that he’s still with them but so is the fever. In truth, he's better off asleep, Pope decides. He’ll need all the energy he can get. They will have to form a plan around Fish if he has any hope of making it out alive.

Pope isn’t a betting man but if he had to put numbers on Fish’s chances, they wouldn’t be high.

He joins Red, Benny and Will a short distance from the camp, out of hearing range. Red laces his fingers before his face and hunkers down on a fallen log. The rest of them form huddle in a squat.

“How is he?” Will opens the dialogue.

“Not great.” Pope sighs. “Fever's back. Fluid in both lungs. Resps real janky. Had a bitch of a night last night.” 

“We recall.” Says Red. “But I gotta stay hard on cold camp. You know why.” 

Pope does even if it sucks for them all. Red continues.

“Now we’re about a day away from the base. Once we start to climb, there’s gonna be elevation and more demands on our oxygen. My question to you, Pope, is can Fish ride?”

Pope sucks in a breath. “More or less. He’s weak and the air up there is gonna make it harder for him than it already is. If we tie him to the saddle, we can guide the horse up towards the outer peak. But we can’t take the horse down, that animal wasn’t made for slip terrain. It could fall. Break its back.”

“Let’s cross that bridge once we get there. My concern is here and now. Is Fish able to get back in that saddle?”

Pope glances over his shoulder at Fish’s sleeping form, hunched down in his nest of wet blankets. He rubs his chin, worriedly.

“Looks like he’ll have to.”

“Then I say we prep him now as much as we can before we reach the Andes. Any meds we have on us, go to Fish." He meets Will's eyes. He concedes with a nod. "Knock that fever down. Get that cough under as much control as we can. It’s the best chance at keeping him at our pace.”

Benny pops the question. 

“We got a game plan for that?” He frowns. “We didn’t prep for medevac.”

“How’s our supply?” Pope asks. “He’s gonna need extra water. Fluids. Food."

Will digs through his pack and produces a packet of trail mix and a bottle Gatorade. All Will has are the mangoes and a couple bananas he’d filched off the vines just outside the village. Red has a box of soluble bone broth; a leftover habit from their Iraq tour. Pope has a dated MRE that he’d never bothered to clean out of his travel pack.

“Give it all to Fish.” Red decides. “Whatever he’s able to keep down. If we gotta split his load among the four of us then that’s what we do.”

“What if we gotta carry Fish’s load AND Fish?”

Red sobers up quickly. “We carry Fish before the load.”

End of discussion.

“Thank you.” Pope starts accepting the pooled supplies, stowing them all away in his pack for later use. “The rest of us can get by on the fruit but all that’s gonna be gone once we hit rock. Up that mountain, there’s nothing but us and the peaks. So keep your energy up while you still have a source.” 

“Alright, that’s settled.” Red breathes. “Now, let’s get Fish up and out.”

Will nods. “Right. I got an idea.” He heads off in Fish’s direction.

“Hey Fish!" He bellows. "Vamos muchacho, we’re movin!”

Fish stirs weakly at the sound of his name, peeling the wet blankets away from his body. His eyes blink dazed from beneath his cap, as though unsure of where he is. He rubs his arms against the cold, shaking the moisture off his field jacket. Dark hair clings to his forehead in stark contrast to his ghostly complexion.

“Morning.” Fish coughs.

Will plants himself on a log, knees spread and beckons Fish over. “Get over here, Fishcake. Ven aqui!”

“W-why?” Fish covers his cough with a fist. As he drags himself miserably to his feet, the grinding in his chest grows louder. Will waits until Fish plops himself down cross-legged in front of him, rubbing his hands together to warm them. Benny balks, turning his face away. He knows what’s about to happen. When his hands are warm enough, Will pushes Fish's upper body forward, bending him at the waist.

“Alright, lean over. This is gonna suck but trust me, you’ll thank me later.” After a flex, he starts thumping Fish on the back firmly with the heels of his hands, rapid taps up and down his shoulders, between his shoulder blades, his sides, anywhere old mucus might be trapped. Immediately, Fish starts coughing but Will ignores the sound.

“This’ll loosen all the gunk up in there. Just cough it up, ok Fish?”

Fish does or at least he tries. The slaps agitate his lungs into involuntary spasms. His face reddens as the depth of his coughing intensifies. Soon the throaty hacks turn into harsh wet gags. 

“Sounds painful.” Red winces.

“It is.” Fish confirms, heaving between gasps.

“Do we need a safe word?” Will asks. 

“Nah, keep going.” Fish looks ready to puke. He leans over and grunts. 

“Shit, you’re more backed up than a roadside john!” Benny exclaims as he watches (in pity) from the sidelines. Fish can’t respond even if he wants to. Pope waits, stethoscope slung over his shoulder. He holds a lighter under his tin utility cup, heating water for Fish to rinse and swallow with when he’s done.

But Fish isn’t done and neither is Will. He continues palpitating and doesn’t let up, not even when Fish visibly shudders, fighting to breathe against the fits. Between bouts of gagging that produce nothing and forced lurches that bring up clear bile, it’s an exhausting process.

“You’re doing great, Fishcake.” Will urges calmly as he continues tapping up and down Fish’s spine. “Y’know every time our gran pulled this shit on Benny, he’d be sobbing like a bitch when it was over.”

“I was four, asshole.”

“Wept when you were nineteen too.”

“Well yeah, she hit hard!”

“It don’t feel too nice coming up but once it’s out….?”

As he says this, Fish suddenly jerks and heaves up a disturbing wad of gritty brownish sputum. Benny jumps back, wide-eyed. 

“Oh shit!”

“Beautiful!” Pope remarks.

Will pauses to quickly hold a field rag under Fish’s chin as he expels another mouthful of brownish gunk. It hurts his chest and his face is nearly purple, eyes tearing. He heaves and lurches again and again, bringing up even more disgusting matter. 

Benny is at his side, rubbing his back. “It’s ok Fish, you’re all good. Hack it all up, it’s gonna make you better man. Get all the crap out!” 

Fish doesn't have much more to bring up. The next shuddering heaves come up dry. Will finally eases off on the beat down and resorts to rubbing smooth circles.

"Alright, I think yer empty now Fishcake." Will smiles.

No one is more glad than Fish.

To prove it, he takes in a cautious breath, bracing himself for another onslaught. The purge has left him trembling but once his color evens out and he can see again, he deflates. Shuddering he falls back against Will’s stomach, just recovering and panting against him. Will ruffles his hair, nodding to Pope who moves in with his stethoscope.

“Tough guy, you did it! Great job, Fish!” Benny crows.

Fish smiles weakly but he is too worn out to open his eyes.

“Thanks.” He gasps. “Just…just need a minute.”

"How do you feel?" Pope squats down beside him, pressing the disc up under his shirt.

"Little better actually," Fish nods, spitting again over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I can hear it."

Pope can hear his breath whooshing in and out much cleaner through the stethoscope. Still a few cracks and pops. Nothing he doesn’t expect. But he can at least take in a full breath without choking. Benny whistles. “How much shit you had in there, Fish?”

Pope slings the stethoscope back over his shoulder. “I'd say about a 3 day build up. Any more and he’d be looking at a drainage tube in ICU.” 

He claps a hand on Fish's neck, nudging him to open his eyes. Offering the warmed cup, he helps him sit up to drink. Fish sips gratefully, eager to rid his mouth of the metallic taste.

"Back in the saddle?" Pope asks, extending his hand.

"Back in the saddle.” Fish lets himself be pulled to his feet.


End file.
